In the shoulder-width paths swims the gondola
gliding over ancient dust and painted remains
facing up and meeting walls
standing face to coloured face.
In this hushed alleyway,
with its disturbed tranquility of distance roars
ringing from the Murano glass-studded,
in this blushing sunset of applause for its elegancy,
in this still living mosaic island
stretching up its head on the sinking wine—
she peeks out her window
with dark eyes drawn to the rocking barcarole—
a string snaps, a pain pinches,
but she too is another glittering face
in this man-made spectacle.